Hillerson 1

Natalie Hillerson
Honors 345A
Frances McCue
9 March 2016
Where We Come From
This name doesnt taste right on their tongues. Seated in the last two seats of the last train
car, they conclude through hushed voices: this name has one too many syllables, feels guttural,
and sticks in their throat on the way out. Theyre only halfway to Gteborg from Vnersborg, but
they hear the wheels screech against the tracks as the train slows. She clenches his knee,
becomes rigid in her seat. He rests his hand on top of herslarge, warm, a tad bit rough. He
leans closer, Mary, lskling, dont worry. The train isnt slowing down because of us. Probably
just letting another train pass. The heat of his breath on her ear relaxes her vice-grip fingers, and
the train regains speed. She exhales, thumbing the crisp identification papers that rest in her lap.
Theyre new, pristine, and almost entirely falsified.
The Swedish government has outlawed emigration out of fear that the pure Swedish
population would severely diminish if inhabitants were allowed to pursue the American dream.
As such, the only way the couple could make a new life and start a family in America was if they
attainted new identitieschanging their last name and country of origin to escape persecution
and imprisonment. Nervously, John and Mary recite their new names over and over again. They
mutter the word under their breath until the name sounds meaninglessthough maybe that was
fitting. This name holds no significance for them. No history, no proof of their legacy. They
worry that in changing their name, theyve erased from memory all those who have carried it
before. They want to reject this new identity altogethertake a risk, keep their old name, hope
they dont get caught. These urges pass with every turn of the train wheels; as they get closer to
Gteborg, the promise of a prosperous life in America becomes more tangible, and they succumb

Hillerson 2
to another wave of name repetition. They hope, one day, this name wont sound so phony, so
fictitious, so dishonest. They hope itll feel like home.

I never liked the way my voice tripped over the lull of the ller, then clipped over the
abrupt harshness of the son. I felt like I was lying every time I introduced myself, and I spent
most of my childhood wishing I could have been born into a different surname. I was relieved
when I found out this name was fabricated to ensure safe emigration from Sweden. Hultman felt
more like truth in my mouthtwo strong syllables as pillars underpinning either side of my jaw.
Hultman was resilient. My father had hired someone to trace our familys lineage back to
Sweden, and the findings were compiled in an official, formal typed document. Hultman was
generation zeromy great-great-great-grandfather Anders wore this name until his son was
forced to change it. The document is nine pages long and I find my own name on the sixth: fifth
generation, entry number nineteen. HILLERSON and its vertical lines stands tall on the page. But it
still feels fat and bulbous when I roll it between my teeth.
I often wonder if hating my last name is akin to rejecting my heritage. And I wonder if
this is why I dont feel close to my fathers side of the family. We always lived far away from
most of my relatives, but many of my friends had still managed to develop close relationships
with their extended family who lived across the country. I wonder where I went wrong. Im the
youngest of five cousins by nine years, and they all called my grandfather Papa. I called him
Grandpa. I always felt deceitful using the name Papa, like I was listening in on a secret I
wasnt supposed to hear. Calling him Papa was an honor, a privilege, and I never felt worthy.
When my eldest cousin had two sons, they called my grandpa Papa without hesitation; the
name flew from their mouths with a sense of ownership and reverence. They are nine years

Hillerson 3
younger than me and seem to belong to this family more tangibly than I do. I wonder if
Hillerson feels right to them, like they couldnt imagine carrying any other name.

My brother called today. He doesnt call often. I asked him, So, hows being a busy
doctor saving lives? He chuckled, Its going well. But Nan, listenI didnt call you to talk
about me saving lives. I called to talk about me creating one. In seven months Ill be an aunt. I
think about this new name: Aunt Natalie. Maybe Aunt Nanafter all, this nickname was brought
about due to my own inability to say Natalie at the age of two.
I wonder about this child. A new Hillerson. I wonder what this child will think about their
ancestry. About their upbringing, and all those who will come after. And all those who came
before.

The night falls thick on the train windows, leaving a layer of condensation around the
edges. Lights envelop the train, signaling its arrival at the Centralstationen in Gteborg. John
and Mary promptly and quietly gather their luggagetwo small leather bags filled with only
clothes and photos from their old life, all names erased or scratched out. The light bags are heavy
on their shoulders as they exit the main train station and make their way through the city to the
harbor. The walk takes half an hour and trails the small river Gta lv, which eventually empties
into the Kattegat, which eventually joins the North Sea, which eventually merges with the
Atlantic Ocean. John and Mary alternate between staring at their feet, swiftly gliding over the
uneven cobblestones, and staring at the river. This water contains their future. They hope these
slow waves, glistening then crumbling in the moonlight, can carry them.

Hillerson 4
As they arrive at the port, John wonders if his father felt this nervous. A prisoner of the
Finnish War, Anders probably felt as trapped as John does. John never met him, not really, but he
thinks he would have been proud of their attempts to escape. He never knew him, not really, but
John believes his father still maintained hope through his imprisonment, and John is determined
to do the same. Mary clenches Johns hand tight when the one of the ships crew members
checks their tickets and identification papers. The man, face taut and expressionless, glances
between the documents and the couple before letting them on board, monotonously welcoming
them on the journey to America. Once safely in their small and cramped quarters, John and Mary
let out deep sighs, feeling their muscles relax and cheeks flush. They smile, and laugh.
John and Mary Hillerson immigrated through Ellis Island on June 24th, 1903. They
headed straight for a town in southeast North Dakota where they had heard many Swedish
immigrants were situated. When they arrived at the small, flat expanse, they realized why so
many Swedes lived here. This town reminded them of Vnersborg, and instantly they felt
comfortable and welcomed. And so they stayed, raising the population from 135 to 137.
Eventually, they would raise the population by 4 more: one son and three daughters. The city of
Hope became their home, and I wonder if this name means more to me than it did them.

Fifteen and a half miles away from Hope, and forty years later, Fay Erickson met Marvin,
grandson of John and Mary, in Luverne, North Dakota. Marvin would be sent off to fight in
World War II a few months after they met, but Fay knew he was the one. So did many other
women in Luverne and neighboring towns. My grandfather made them all a deal: he would
marry whoever was waiting for him when he returned from the front-lines.

Hillerson 5
The day of his homecoming, women lined the dusty road that led to the train station.
They snuck quick glances at each other out of the corners of their eyes, sizing each other up,
wondering who would win his hand in marriage by waiting the longest. None of them ate. A few
of them dozed off, slumping against the walls of the church before hanging their heads in defeat
and walking home to get some rest. Finally, they heard the blaring horn and stepped forward in
anticipation, slowly inching toward the incoming train. My grandfather stepped onto the
platform, nearly bombarded by a flurry of dresses and perfume, and murmured, Good grief,
anyhow. He turned behind him to assist Fay off the train. Her sly grin grew as the women
groaned and trudged away.
Many women waited for my grandfather in North Dakota. But my grandmother waited
for him in New York, where his ship arrived from the battle fronts in France. She spent her last
dime on a train ticketselling her makeup (but not her rouge, never her rouge), blouses, slacks,
and jewelry for the chance to spend the rest of her life with him. His face lit up at the sight of her
on the docks, and they held hands the entire 1,600 miles home. Fay Hillerson has a nice ring to
it, dont you think? she asks him as they cross into Illinois. He traces her jawline with his hand,
thumbs gliding over her rosy cheeks, and answers, I do.
When I visited my grandparents, my grandma would call me into her room every
morning and ask me which blush she should wear that day. I sat on her lap and helped her pick
out the right shade every time.

When I was growing up, my dad and I would travel to Fargo-Moorhead from our home in
Albuquerque to see his family. The car ride is 18 hours, both ways. Most trips, we took three
days and two nights at Holiday Inns to get there. The final time we made this journey, on the

Hillerson 6
return ride to Albuquerque, my father kept driving well into the night as I nodded off in the back
seat. Natalie, are you okay? Do you want to stop? Sleepily, I mumbled back, No, you can
drive a bit longer. About 20 miles after we crossed the border into New Mexico, we stopped at a
motel, its dirty VACANCY sign vaguely illuminated by the moon. The rooms had orange doors
and fluffy orange carpet. I squished the fibers between my toes and leapt into the lumpy bed, the
sounds of my dad brushing his teeth rocking me quickly to sleep.
As we arrived home the next morning, I ran to my mom and told her how proud she
should be that we made the journey in two days, not our regular three. I boasted about being very
strong and very tough and only making Dad stop once to sleep! She smiled and said she was glad
we were home. We moved to Minnesota less than a year later, to be closer to my grandpa who
had fallen ill. That car ride was much shorter, and we would often make day tripsleaving very
early and coming back very latein order to see Marvin as much as we could.
Fargo-Moorhead is one half North Dakota and one half Minnesota, and remains a tight
community even though the Red River divides the two states in scrawling script. My
grandparents lived in Fargo, and one of my aunts lived in Moorhead with her husband and two
children, Mark and Erica. These cousins both moved to Minneapolis for college, but transferred
back to Moorhead after one year and have lived there ever since. In fact, Mark bought the house
across the street from his parents home after getting married to his high school sweetheart. I
imagine this cul-de-sac will be their legacy, populated by generations of Hillersons, house by
house by house.
I know weve entered the final minutes of our car ride to Moorhead when I smell
burning, sickening and strong. Like someone set ablaze the three miles of fields that rustle in the
wind out the car window. I remember plugging my nose with adolescent fingers when we took

Hillerson 7
this trip for the first time. Ewwww whats on fire? I asked my dad from the back seat.
Nothing, Nan. Its just the sugar processing plant. I had never imagined something so sweet
could be borne from something so foul.
If Moorhead tasted saccharine and singed, then Fargo tasted like the chocolate milk from
Hornbachers that always populated my grandmothers fridge. Ive spent a decade of my life in
Minnesota, and have grown to adore the Twin Cities and Minnesota culture. But Fargo will
always taste sweeter in my memory than Minnesota ever could. Perhaps too much of my family
history has transpired in North Dakota, stories and lives I cant even begin to imagine, that
everything else feels charred in comparison.

John and Mary Hillerson stepped on fertile North Dakota soil on June 24th, 1903. Exactly
one hundred and eleven years later to the day, my maternal grandfather would be killed. This
date is an intersection of the two halves of my history. This date is both a new beginning and an
abrupt ending. I wonder what this means.
His name was published in the local newspaper, appeared in the second story on the 10
oclock news, and was printed on the plump medical examiners envelope that arrived at our
house, reeking of formaldehyde and grief. His name was everywhereon mail forwarded to our
house, in police notes, in the obituary. Now, I barely see it, only feel it.
My mom has the same initials as her father. Her middle name is Lee, and her fathers was
Leroy. She says theres no correlation, but I know she believes in one. Her first name didnt exist
before she didher parents combined their first names to create their daughters. Her father lives
every time she introduces herself. I see connections merge between my mothers history and my
fathers history. These similarities in name generation and identity formationthey span

Hillerson 8
centuries, familial lines, geographic distances. They unite and intersect and have manifested in
me. Me, and my life, and my name.

My father is the middle child and has two sisters on either side. Three of them were
married and had changed their last name to mirror their husbands. (The fourth never got
married, and never would.) When my father asked her to marry him, my mother was worried.
She did not want the last name Hillerson. She wanted to keep her owneven though, yes,
Woodruff was her fathers last name and, yes, had been passed down through a slew of males
so, yes, the name still shouldered patriarchal stench. But she had spent the last 29 years making it
hers. And she wasnt about to exchange it for another.
When I ask her about this decision, she simply responds: I just didnt want to.
When I ask her why I have my fathers last name, not hers, she simply responds, Thats
the tradition.
I wonder about my future. I dont want this name. But I dont want to give it up, either.